


original sin

by singlemalter



Series: aubade beginning in handcuffs [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, To an annoying degree even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Charles Leclerc is painfully sure he wants to be a good man.
Relationships: Lewis Hamilton/Charles Leclerc
Series: aubade beginning in handcuffs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683820
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	original sin

Here and now, Charles wonders: does he desire this once more and innumerable times more?

He kneels at an untouchable champion’s feet, waits for transverberation as though it’s going to save him from some unnamed, incomprehensible fear. 

“Up,” Lewis commands. Charles obeys, raising his head to lean into his touch, looking up but never meeting Lewis’ gaze; he hasn’t earned that privilege. “So pretty.”

For Charles, showing off his naked body is a physical pleasure he can share with anyone. This, on the other hand—being held and praised, Lewis’ tattooed hand skimming over the bumps and imperfections on his skin—is raw, near-painful intimacy, the kind of thing he hesitates to do even after so long. 

Two fingers slide past Charles’ lips and to the back of his throat, only pulling out when he gags, eyes wide, cheeks red. He’s not allowed to speak, not while the collar is firmly around his neck, its leash looped around Lewis’ wrist—all that stands between him and unconsciousness is trust in Lewis’ better judgement.

“Beautiful.” Lewis drags his damp fingers over Charles’ cheek. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

Slowly, Charles raises his cuffed hands to Lewis’ sweatpants, waiting. Lewis nods, allows him to untie the knot below the waistband and pull out his soft cock.

It’s pathetic, how Charles is shoulder-deep in his own arousal while Lewis remains perfectly composed, the dirty display in front of him about as enticing as a cookbook. At the same time, his indifference is the perfect motivation for Charles, who runs on spite and a drive to impress everyone, always desperate to prove to Lewis he’s worthy of this position.

“Perfect,” Lewis murmurs, impossibly gentle. His low voice sends a chill down Charles’ spine. “Come on, get your mouth on me.”

Charles closes his eyes and gives in. He’s relaxed, peaceful, the way he gets when gentle lust alters his body, conjugates prey into prayer. 

“Open wide,” says Lewis, and Charles does, swallows him down like a devout boy, so good, isn’t he. 

He groans around the heavy weight in his mouth, feels it slowly swell until the tip is poking out of Lewis’ foreskin, leaking pre onto his tongue. Patience has never been Charles’ strongest suit, but this makes his stomach flutter like nothing else can—not anyone else on the grid, not the thrum of the engine. 

Lewis tugs his leash to pull Charles closer, and the physical reminder of his inferiority makes Charles shiver. He lazily fucks Charles’ throat, shallow thrusts between cherry red lips, stifling his moans like his pleasure, his _humanity_, are a secret he needs to keep. 

With Lewis, a sloppy blowjob is practically devotional. Charles wants to confess: I’m envious of your glory, of the genuine confidence in your heart, of the gold and silver trophies glinting in the shelf behind me. Tell me how to become the Word made flesh. I need to be like you.

Charles raises his head and catches his breath, and he has to remind himself it’s not an admission of weakness. 

“God, man, you’re something else,” Lewis says, wiping the faint sheen of sweat on Charles’ forehead. Charles flinches, burning with the need to tell him, _please don’t be kind to me, I can’t stomach it, I haven’t learned how to be cared for_. 

Instead, he nods, tries to take Lewis back into his mouth again. If he doesn’t think about it too much, _something else_ has no meaning whatsoever. 

Lewis stops him. “Enough,” he commands. He wraps a hand around his cock, moving up and down at a painfully slow pace, leaving Charles to stare, close but unable to touch. “Gonna look so pretty with your face all dirty, I wanna see it, baby.”

Charles is too weak to ever deny him that. He watches Lewis get himself off like he’s got a proper audience, doesn’t blink when white-hot stripes land on his forehead, dripping down to his cheeks, still clinging to his lashes.

They can’t take pictures of anything they do; that kind of recklessness doesn’t suit Lewis, anyway. But Charles wishes he could see himself, eyes screwed shut, mouth parted for a taste. The narcissistic streak in him says he’s beautiful, everything a god wants, flawless. 

“Now I want you to make yourself come,” Lewis says, and the sound of his voice is enough to drag Charles back to reality, into the colder, crueler world in which he hasn’t earned his stripes yet—he’s lucky, nothing more. “Get up here. You’ve been so good, baby, I’m gonna give you what you want.”

It’s not absolution or apotheosis, but it’s a start, and Charles rushes to obey. 

Climbing into Lewis’ lap with his hands tied together is hard, but resisting the urge to kiss him squarely on the mouth is the most difficult thing Charles has ever done. He fights to stay composed, unmoving even as Lewis touches him, gifted fingers nearly pushing him over the edge. 

“Are you going to come for me?” Lewis asks, pressing a soft kiss to Charles’ temple. “Do it. Do it for me, I know you want to, I know you worked so hard for it, baby.”

Despite the humiliation churning in his gut, Charles does. After a year of submitting to Lewis, he no longer asks to get bent over a table and fucked; instead, he’s satisfied with any scraps of relief he might get from grinding into Lewis’ foot. Obedience used to be harder than yielding to his teammate on track—now, it’s embedded into his nature, as effortless as Lewis’ power. 

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he spills into Lewis’ hand, keeping his silence to the very end, not only for Lewis’ sake but also his own; maybe, if he does well, then he will deserve this, deserve to have Lewis in all the unspoken ways he wants. When morning comes, Charles will build a cathedral around their bodies and praise him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to singlemalter and the Charles/Lewis ship who are now a year old, and happy birthday to me. I’m coming full circle because, well, y’all know how I am by now. One year. A whole year. Holy shit. I’ve tried my best to return to the motifs I had back in my first couple of fics, so if you were like _wow, this guy’s a prick, I’m glad he stopped being pretentious_—I’m sorry! Really!
> 
> “What, if some day or night, a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life, as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more.’” Friedrich Nietzsche, _The Gay Science_. 
> 
> “How gentle lust alters a body, conjugates prey into prayer.” Torrin A. Greathouse, _Aubade Beginning in Handcuffs_ (the title of which I stole for this series). 
> 
> “When morning comes, I will build a cathedral around our bodies.” James Tate, _Coda_.


End file.
